Us Of Lesser Gods
by MissLizzieLee
Summary: "There are two kinds of people in the world my friend. Those with a rope around the neck, and the people who have the job of doing the cutting." Claire Novak is a woman who lost faith a long time ago. Jesse Turner has demon blood in his veins and a fate he's determined to run from. Ben Braeden is haunted by memories half-forgotten. Together, they fight to stay alive, to stay human.


**{Chapter one of Us of Lesser Gods. I'll try to update as often as a can, but this fic is extensive, so please bear with me. xD Please read and review! Much credit goes to my lovely sister Molly for writing and editing this with me.}**

It's early July, and the heat is suffocating. That in itself wouldn't be so bad, but it's the humidity that makes it miserable. Illinois got hot in the summer, but damn, it was nothing like this; Claire decides silently that she's not well-equipped to handle the brutal heat of the south. It's only been a few months since she left Pontiac for a life of her own, and since then she's been all across the country, searching for any scrap of lore or sighting of her father that she can find. Sure, it'll be a sighting of Castiel, if he's even still alive… But she shakes the thought as soon as it creeps up.

And so, the blonde girl from the mid-west sits outside of a small cafe in the French Quarter of New Orleans, dressed in a pair of worn out jeans and a tank top that exposes her shoulders, which are showing the beginnings of a nasty sunburn. Damn her fair skin and blonde hair and immunity to sunscreen no matter how much she slathers it on. Her hair is pulled back into a tight fishtail braid, the curls straining against their hold as the humidity causes each strand to puff up like she's a black cat on one of those Halloween cards you see, but never buy. In front of her is a map of the city, and she's trying to flatten down the corners, as if by some miracle the weight of her hands is going to keep the edges from curling up. In one hand she holds a sharpie marker, and in the other hand, a toothpick that she occasionally sticks in her mouth to nibble on in thought. She's only been in the city for a day, and already, she's completely lost. Damn it, she's from a small town, she doesn't know how to navigate a place the size of New Orleans. It feels big, and intimidating, and doesn't help the pang of guilt as she thinks on home, thinks about her mother, and how she abandoned the woman out of spite, all because she wanted to move on and have a new life.

It was time for Claire to leave the nest, anyway.

Unearthly, piercing blue eyes flit across the map before they hesitate, and settle on the shining dagger that hangs at her hip from her belt. Amelia wanted a new life. Claire obliged, and in turn, she carved out an entirely new life for herself. That life wasn't safe, it wasn't smart, and it was nothing like the life her father had wanted for her. The hunter had become the hunted in no time, and before long, the searching had turned to running. The blade she carried to kill was now for her protection.

Heaven wanted her dead.

And so, there she sat, under the broken awning at Café Amelié, sipping sweet tea and praying to God the wind would pick up soon, because if it didn't, the heat would kill her before the heavenly hosts did.

The scorching July heat had little effect on one Jesse Turner. He mused that, as the antichrist, he probably had a pre-disposition to hellish tempers. A dry grin quirked his lips at the thought, as he strolled down the wide, cobblestoned streets of the French Quarter, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. A wife beater displayed his arms, tribal tattoos winding their way around his muscles like barbed wire.

New Orleans was one of the only cities in the world he truly loved, so he made a point to swing through as often as he could, when he wasn't being hunted by Angels, or other hunters, for that matter. Strolling along that day, passing by Cafe' Amelie as he usually does, the pretty blonde girl with quickly reddening skin catches his eye. He's not sure if it's the innocent sort of frustration she seems to be having, her nose scrunched up in concentration, or the fact that one strap of her tank top has slid down her shoulder that pulls him to her. Either way, he grins widely and turns on the charm, taking the seat opposite from her. In a slightly southern drawl, peppered with a subtle Australian accent, he addresses her.

"You ain't from around here, are you darlin'?"

The girl has been so engrossed in her map-reading that she almost doesn't hear him. Almost. Claire tenses, head still bowed, and looks up at him from behind the few stray, frizzy curls that have fallen in front of her eyes. Is he trying to flirt or something? With an exasperated sigh, she folds up the map and stuffs it in her laptop bag.

"You want to know something?" she begins, her voice starting out a little flirty. She bats her eyelashes, and leans in, as if she's intending on falling prey to his southern charm. There's a moment of silence from her, and she waits until Jesse leans in as well before she speaks again. "I carry this fun little bottle in my purse. And you know what's in that bottle? Pepper spray. And you know somethin' else? I enjoy using it."

With that, Claire reaches for her sweet tea, never taking her eyes off of him. Something about him, something that she can't quite place, sets her on edge. It's not the way he looks at her or the way he waltzed over with that stupid grin; It's something more than that. Something a little more base and instinctive, something that resonates with the grace in her blood and churns in her stomach. A part of her wants him to stick around, just to see what he says, and another part of her wants to get as far away from him as she possibly can.

A loud, gravelly, bark-like laugh erupts from him. Oh, he likes this one very much indeed. He leans in a little as well, still grinning a slightly-crooked grin, dark green eyes sparkling up at her.

"Won't be no need for that, darlin, not that kind of guy." He winks. Then, leaning in closer, he picks up on it, the invisible thing that drew him to her, that seemed to make her stand out. He nearly curses out loud, how could he have missed it? Was he really being that careless? A subtle...glow, seems to emanating from her. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, it crawls over his skin with a mix of pleasure and discomfort.

Grace. This one was either an angel, or a vessel. He stands, fast, causing her to look up in slight alarm. That's when he looks down and sees the blade sticking out of her bag. What the hell has he gotten himself into? He curses and leans down low, close to her ear.

"That's a pretty little Angel Blade you've got there, blondie," he says in a low, husky voice, teeth gritted.

In a split second Claire's standing, her internal defenses on high alert. Maybe she's just being paranoid about the way he seems to scramble to his feet, but then he growls out that simple phrase near her ear and she lurches backwards, light on her feet and ready to run. She doesn't want to fight right now, not in the middle of the French Quarter, not where it could get her arrested. She's got no qualms about killing demons and angels alike, but she's damn sure she doesn't want to end up in jail.

"I guess it is, isn't it? Before you ask me where I got it or why I'm carrying it... I mean, come on, I've heard that a million times." She meets his eyes seemingly fearlessly, and her face has been schooled into a near emotionless mask. "I have to ask... what's got you so jumpy? Scared of an angel blade? If you're some feather-butt asshole, I have to hand it to you... you hide it well."

Jesse laughs again, hoarsely, but there's a far-less amused quality to it than before.

"Far from it, sweetheart," he says in a near growl. "I'm nothing you've ever dealt with before, I can tell you that. But don't worry, gorgeous, I'm not gonna hurt you. S'long as you don't use that bloody thing on me," he shoots a venomous glance at the blade. "Now, you wanna take this somewhere a little less..." he looks around them for a moment, his entire body taut and on guard, "public? Or just say sianara here and now and go our separate ways?" He looks at her a long moment, feeling an odd confliction in his usually rational, pessimistic brain. She could have killed him straight off, sure. Maybe he's setting himself up for a really, really stupid trap..yes. But there's something about her that isn't like any Hunter, or any vessel for that matter, he's ever met.

There's something in her eyes, a kind of guarded loneliness, that he understands all too well. Well, that, and she's really, very pretty.

"That's reserved for people who want to kill me," she retorts with ease, her voice low and dangerous, almost too calm. Claire never looks away from him, never backs down, not even when he looms over her, making his height obvious, whether he means to or not. His voice makes her blood run cold and sets it ablaze all at once, igniting a kind of masochistic fascination within her.

Parting ways with him should be the obvious choice. Anyone who's rational or sane would have been running in the other direction long ago.

Claire Novak is not rational, or sane.

"The name's Claire, handsome."

He grins at her then, watching her fight her hunter's instinct and rational nature, watch her say yes, basically.

"Jesse, love," he winks, straightening up and stuffing his hands back into his jeans pockets, trying to appear unassuming and placid. "Now, let me buy you the best beignet in N'awlans, darling, and we can have a little chat, maybe." He bows a little, as if letting her pack up her stuff confidently, trying to look the gentlemen.

Claire's caught somewhere between rolling her eyes at him and being utterly charmed, utterly conflicted in the strangest way. He's confusing, to say the least. She can't quite wrap her head around him yet. He's not so easy to read, and it's driving her insane.

She still can't shake that chill deep in her bones, even she packs up her things. As soon as Claire thinks it's gone, she'll meet his gaze, or feel the weight of those green eyes watching her, and it's back.

"Never had one," she says with a shrug, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "And yeah, you're right. I'm not from around here, to uh, to answer your question before." Maybe if she gets him talking, just maybe... Maybe he'll be easier to pick apart, maybe he'll let something slip. "I'm from the mid-west."

Jesse laughs that bark-like laugh again, looking sidelong at her as they walk, and he can see her guard up. Her body language is all too easy to read, her defenses as visible to him as if he were looking into a mirror.

"Mid-westerner, hm? M'from Nebraska originally." She finds it a bit hard to believe, considering his amalgam of accents. "But lived mostly in Australia." Suddenly, he stops short, as if deeply shocked and offended. "NEVER had a BEIGNET? Why, little lady, you are about to be treated," he grins again, shaking his head. He can't get a real smile out of her to save his life, and something about that sets wrong with him. After a few silent steps , still watching her out of the corner of his eyes, he says, a little more gently, but still slightly teasing.

"You know, I'm not gonna pull a knife on you, sweetheart. God's honest truth. You can drop your guard a little, Christ. Not that I think you will," he shrugs a little, laughing dryly.

"You might," she answers easily, all seriousness to her voice. As much as she hates it, there's no other choice but to keep her guard up. She's vulnerable. She's out in the open with... with this Jesse kid, whatever and whoever the hell he is, and judging by the way her grace had reacted to him, the Angels had him on their radar. "Hey, don't give me that look, I'm just telling the truth. I don't know you, you don't know me. I could pull a knife on you, for all you know. If I were you, I'd be more careful."

Claire herself is a walking neon sign for Heaven to read and follow. From what she can tell, Jesse's a spotlight. They're just asking to get killed.

"Australia? Y'know, for being Nebraskan and Australian and... whatever the hell else, you speak like a native Cajun."

He nods a little, and tips his body to her slightly, in surrender.

"Fair enough point. And, I guess you could say," he lathers on the impeccable Cajun accent even thicker, "that I'm adaptable, Chere," he winks at her, then quickly drops the accent and switches to his native Australian-though it's only moderate. "As for your other inquiry, love. You could also say I'm...pretty sure I can take care of myself." He grins ruefully with a pained sort of expression he doesn't think she can see. Yeah. I'm the goddamned antichrist and I could kill you in five seconds if I wanted to. "I try and be careful but, I think I'm pretty well protected." He shrugs, and comes to a stop outside a little bakery.

"Now, allow me to buy a beautiful woman a beignet, would you?"

Claire notices the pain in his eyes and his voice right away. She doesn't mention it, though, because she suspects he'll start asking questions about her to deflect if she does. As much as she hates to admit it, Jesse's actually half-decent company. Her standards are lower than they were, though, seeing as she hasn't had a real conversation with another human being in months.

It's only when he stops outside the bakery that she's ripped away from her thoughts, and arms crossed over her chest, she thinks it over for a moment. "If you're doing this just to get in my pants, you're wasting your time, Jesse. And you're an idiot."

He hasn't laughed this much in longer than he remembers. He doesn't even think he's smiled this much in months, at least genuinely.

"Well...idiot, I'd say is fair," he holds open the door for her and bows her through, watching her watch him with cautious eyes. "But no, I, like I said, just want to buy a beautiful girl something delicious. Something so wrong with that, love?" She doesn't answer, but continues to watch him as he orders for the both of them. Two of the best beignets in Louisiana, and a coffee for himself (she declines when he offers,) and they sit down at a small table in the blessedly air-conditioned room.

They're seated in a far corner of the little shop, away from the door and counter enough that if he lowers his voice, they have relative privacy.

"Now you just savor that, hm? While we get to...know each other. How's a pretty girl like you end up with an Angel blade and a hunter's grudge, hm?"

Claire's pretty sure she hasn't tasted anything as delicious as a beignet in her life. One bite leaves her wide-eyed and starving for more. She realizes then that she hasn't eaten a decent meal in months, but the thought is chased away as she continues to devour the pastry. Good food is definitely an effective way of getting her to relax a little, because when he asks her about her Angel blade, she doesn't punch him in the face.

She does, however, look like she's going to.

It takes her a moment or two to speak because she has to wipe the powdered sugar from her upper lip and the corners of her mouth, first. As she cleans herself up he can almost see her start to clam up again, and it's not surprise that her answer is simple, short, and irritatingly uninformative.

"What's a strong guy like you doing, jumping away from me back there like I was a ticking time bomb?"

He watches with sincere pleasure as she devours the pastry, catching just a glimpse of the girl she might have been. And then, the walls are up again and she's leaning back, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.

"Nice evasion," he gives her a wicked grin, leaning on the table a little to get just that much closer to her. Her blue eyes are steely and guarded, but he catches a flicker of interest there that makes him grin wider. "And strong hm? Well, thank you," he grins, "and, for your question... let's say I've had plenty of experience with bastards who would like use a blade like that on me, and they sting like a bitch. I tend to avoid people who want to kill me, you know," he shrugs and smiles crookedly, taking a long drink of his coffee. His fingertip swirls around the rim of the cup as if in thought before he comes at her again, from a different angle.

"So. Pretty girl from the mid-west ends up in Louisiana with an angel blade and a hell of a lot of anger...can't even give me a hint?"

"You seem smart enough," she retorts with a casual shrug, one eyebrow quirked up in curiosity and slight irritation. "I think you could figure it out on your own, if you really wanted to know." If he could just drop it, things would go so much more smoothly, but no, it doesn't work like that with this guy, whoever he thinks he is. If he isn't careful, Claire's sure she's going to have to punch him, just to get him to shut the hell up. She's torn between seriously hurting him, or being genuinely charmed.

"...But if you really want a hint, here's one for you. Fuck off, buster."

Jesse leans back in his chair, grinning at her. There's just a hint of a certain darkness in his eyes now but he still seems like the cat who got the cream, and it unnerves her.

"You're right, I am," he cocks his head. "So how's about this, miss with a mouth," he leans back in and looks her straight in the eyes for along, silent, uneasy moment. She feels an odd sort of unsettling feeling for a moment, like she has an itch she can't scratch. And then he grins again. "So, Claire Novak from Pontiac, Illinois. Valedictorian. Honor roll...straight A student, I'm impressed. You've got those walls up pretty damn good girl, I'll give you that. Mother...Amelia. Not too fond of mommy-dearest I don't think. Angry. Lonely. Haunted. Daddy issues that I can't even tap into, Christ. How's that for a guess, sweetheart?" There's a definite bite to his voice on the last word, now.

Claire opens her mouth to say something, to rip him a new one, to shout until her face goes red, but as hard as she tries, she can't seem to say anything. Suddenly she's twelve years old again, unable to speak. Unable to tell. Unable to talk about what happened, or unwilling, in any case. Unable to talk about the amnesia and the voices, about the haunting dreams and the constant fear of losing people, the anger and fear towards the angels she'd put her faith and trust in as a child.

It's silently that she stands, slips her bag over her shoulder and meet's Jesse's eyes, as she turns and walks out of the little bakery. In those blue eyes, when the walls have finally toppled down, is a glimpse of what she hides. Pain. Loneliness. Fear. They're the eyes of a frightened child, of startled prey, contrary to the predatory mask that she wears from day to day.

Just like that, she's gone, and the only thing left of her is the faint grace that lingers there in the room, as if taunting the man who chased her away.

Whatever Jesse was expecting, it wasn't that. It takes him a moment to realize that's she's gone, and all he's staring at is an empty seat infused with the faint glow her grace left behind.

"Claire! Fuck!" He shouts after a minute, standing, startled back into reality, but in the time it takes him, she's long gone. He swears again, loudly, feeling the rage that rules him all too often bubble up and out. With just a flick of his wrist, the table they were sitting at is flipped entirely over, dishes clattering and coffee spilling. The man behind the counter shouts at him, but he raises one hand, and the man falls silent.

Fuming, full of self-hatred and rage, he kicks the doors open and stalks back out into the summer heat. He stand for a minute, trying to trace her if he can, trying to get some sort of feeling from her. He...no, he won't just follow her. Bad idea Jesse. Stalkerish. But...he can feel that faint Grace in the corner of his mind, and he latches onto it like a tether. It feels, oddly, more comforting than it does threatening, but for now, he decides to leave it be.


End file.
